


True North Strong and Feuilly

by afterhours



Series: True North Strong and Femslash [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canada, Gen, Mention of Racism, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:45:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1235437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterhours/pseuds/afterhours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the most part, their leader had moved past the stage of wide-eyed adoration of Feuilly, who had the humblest origins of any of them and a work ethic to match Enjolras’s, who was ― as Enjolras had declared, nearly overwhelmed with admiration, the last time she’d had the misfortune of pondering Feuilly while on medication ― the embodiment of so much that Enjolras wanted for the world. She’d overcome tremendous adversity. She worked tirelessly to make her way in the world. She was single-handed disproof of every racist, classist assumption mainstream Canadian society still held about its aboriginal population. She was an <i>inspiration</i>. She was, despite all the obstacles before her, intelligent and compassionate and wise and kind-hearted.</p><p>She had the most soulful eyes.</p><p>(Enjolras would never, thanks to Courfeyrac, quite live that one down.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	True North Strong and Feuilly

**Author's Note:**

> This very silly fic, which takes place several months before Chinook Arch, is dedicated to [paladinical](http://paladinical.tumblr.com), who was having a bad night.

“Because _we_ have to be strong and free _too_ ,” comes the voice, only slightly slurred from its usual crystalline enunciation. “Like _Feuilly_.”

“Oh no,” says Joly, reflexively adjusting his scarf so it sits just a little higher on his chin. Beside him, Bossuet can’t help but smile, squeezing her boyfriend’s hand as they approach the familiar voice.

They all know that tone.

Typically, though a woman of achingly deep convictions and passions so intense they border on self-destructive, Enjolras is restrained, prone to let loose the full brunt of her feelings only when the ferocity of her speech is most needed, in the pauses where all of them need a burst of inspiration, or under pressure and duress.

“ _Feuilly_ is our True North,” and now they can see her, leaning forward as she speaks, as though the intensity of her conviction, when it comes to this particular matter, will not allow for stillness, cannot be conveyed through the mere act of sitting. She is, in fact, leaning towards Feuilly, extending a hand, palm upwards, towards the other woman, as if in supplication.

There are, as there always are, exceptions to the rule of Enjolras’s restraint, and not all of them are so weighty as duress.

Their friends, sat around tables they’ve long since claimed as their own, are taking in the effusive blond spectacle before them in varied ways. Combeferre is pinching the bridge of her nose, though not as hard as she does when she’s _truly_ distressed, and beneath the shade of her hand, the curve of her smile can just be seen. Courfeyrac is less subtle, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter on Enjolras’s other side. Jehan looks suspiciously as though zie might be transcribing the speech. Maria looks both sympathetic and uncomfortable, and is fiddling with her flower-tipped pen, as though she thinks it might be impolite to look at Enjolras in such a compromised state. Bahorel has an arm slung ‘round Feuilly’s shoulders and is beaming with pride, nodding at all the appropriate moments. Feuilly, for her part, seems more fondly exasperated and bemused than anything, though there’s a hint of colour on her cheeks, and as Bahorel pats her shoulder in support, Feuilly shoots her friend a look that speaks of all the many ways she’d take her revenge, if she had time to dignify Bahorel’s bullshit with her attention.

Grantaire, of course, is smirking into her coffee, eyes on Enjolras.

Joly and Bossuet take their seats next to the last, and Enjolras greets them with a beatific smile, blissfully ignorant of her own lack of composure.

“Joly! Bossuet! We’re discussing the Canadian dream. And how Feuilly…” she lifts her hands, fingers dancing in a futile effort to encompass the many wonderful things Feuilly is. “Feuilly _is_ the Canadian dream.”

She looks very pleased with herself upon articulating such a brilliant revelation, though to her credit, the small, contented sigh she lets out to punctuate her sentence is only noticeable if you’re watching for it. Courfeyrac’s shoulders shake even harder, and Joly and Bossuet regard their friend with a collective mixture of amusement and mild concern.

“That’s nice,” says Joly, because it seems like _someone_ should reply.

There are two facts instrumental in the accidental release of Enjolras’s passions. The first is that Enjolras, driven by a tireless need to see the world made just for all, has a habit of running herself into the ground, no matter how her friends try to dissuade her from working _too_ hard. She tends to forsake sleep inasmuch as she can, forgets meals, barely remembers to take a coat along with her in the cold months, all in the name of making the most of her hours, so that others might one day be free to enjoy _their_ time more fully, have the liberty to live up to their potential. Consequently, Enjolras is prone to catching colds and other minor bugs, the result of a body pushed too often beyond its limits in the name of the mind directing it.

And Enjolras, a sober woman, has no head for cold medications.

The occasions on which she will submit to anything that dulls the mind are few and far between, not least because of scenes like this. An Enjolras under the influence is too prone to letting her heart overpower her mind. An Enjolras under the influence is unproductive and quite devoid of a filter.

Still, sometimes, if her immune system has compromised her ability to function so thoroughly that cough syrup seems like the lesser of two evils, Enjolras will succumb, and all can rest assured that for the next month at least, Courfeyrac will not stop in her mirthful retelling of the stories that ensue.

There was the How Dare You Deny Susan B. Anthony Was Racist debacle of 2011, which had led to several of Enjolras’s fellow students in her introductory Women’s Studies class becoming convinced she was an anti-feminist come to corrupt them all. There was the time Enjolras had tried to articulate to an especially drunk Grantaire exactly why she was so frustrating, and between their respective levels of incapacitation, they had nearly come to blows, or tears, or coronaries, depending on whose version of the story you heard. There was the time Enjolras had unwisely been left alone with Bahorel, and the two of them had nearly started a riot downtown after Enjolras had read an article on the latest fuck-up from city council.

And there were, of course, a few occasions which had left Enjolras not quite able to look Feuilly in the eye for a few days. For the most part, their leader had moved past the stage of wide-eyed adoration of Feuilly, who had the humblest origins of any of them and a work ethic to match Enjolras’s, who was ― as Enjolras had declared, nearly overwhelmed with admiration, the last time she’d had the misfortune of pondering Feuilly while on medication ― the embodiment of so much that Enjolras wanted for the world. She’d overcome tremendous adversity. She worked tirelessly to make her way in the world. She was single-handed disproof of every racist, classist assumption mainstream Canadian society still held about its aboriginal population. She was an _inspiration_. She was, despite all the obstacles before her, intelligent and compassionate and wise and kind-hearted.

She had the most soulful eyes.

(Enjolras would never, thanks to Courfeyrac, quite live that one down.)

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says now, and Joly pulls his scarf up fully to hide his smile, which is only a little bit of a grimace, “how can Feuilly be the Canadian dream? Isn’t the Canadian dream, like the American dream, an insidious abstraction designed to keep the people pliable and submissive before a system meant to keep them down? Isn’t it the Canadian dream that’s made Feuilly’s life so difficult in the first place?”

This time, it’s Grantaire who receives the brief shot of poison that is Feuilly’s glare, though she doesn’t seem any more shaken by it than Bahorel, lifting her coffee in cheers to the other woman.

“ _No._ ” Enjolras sets her hand on the table with force, glaring at Grantaire, jaw set, not quite rising from her seat. This, too, is predictable ― no one has ever quite managed to bring out the kindergartener-having-a-temper-tantrum in Enjolras the way Grantaire does. “That’s not… the Canadian dream is what we make it, because the Canadian dream hasn’t been fully articulated. It’s not part of the… the popular lexicon, the way the American dream is. The American dream is a mid-twentieth century construction designed to promote capitalist consumption and competition, perverted even further with the advent of neoliberalism,” and it’s chilling, truly, how Enjolras is just as capable of Grantaire of impromptu multisyllabic rhetoric when intoxicated, “synonymous with bootstraps philosophy and classist, cock-kissing victim-blaming.” She is, despite the residual redness around her nose and slight hoarseness of her voice, still a sight to behold, eyes wild, the potential for action evident in the lines of her body ― see how she seems ready to step up and stride across the tabletops to shake her points into Grantaire’s shoulders, if she must. “The _Canadian Dream_ is still nebulous, a mirror of its better-known counterpart. The Canadian Dream is still in the making, will _always_ be in the making as we try to articulate ourselves by what we _are_ rather than what we are _not_ ― America, Britain. The Canadian Dream is… The Canadian Dream is everything we fight for, Grantaire. The Canadian Dream is living up to the myth of Canada: a land where everyone is included, where opportunity is equal, where we don’t take our natural resources for granted, where we operate as a meritocracy, but one with compassion, where we use our bounty to provide for those who need it most. The Canadian Dream needs to be _worked_ on. The Canadian Dream is what we have to rise up to, to meet, to exceed. _Feuilly_ ,” and she’s just a little off her chair now, pointing fiercely at the Feuilly in question, “is everything we need to be. She’s hard-working. She doesn’t take our humanitarian myths for granted, without question, because she’s _lived_ their lies. She is _fierce_ and _brilliant_ and _fighting_ for a better world, even though she’s had _every_ reason to turn her back on it. Feuilly is who we should _all_ aspire to be.”

There is a moment of silence, Enjolras’s chest visibly rising and falling in the wake of her defence of Feuilly, still leaning over the table as though she’ll be happy to jump across the tables to convince Grantaire if she needs to. Several eyebrows are raised. Bahorel’s torso is slightly concave with the force of her repressed laughter, eyes squeezed shut. Grantaire sips her coffee.

“Alright,” Feuilly says finally, standing up and shaking off Bahorel’s arm as if it were a particularly unwanted speck of dust. She picks up her bag and slings it over her shoulder. “I’m off to work. Good meeting, everyone.”

Enjolras’s attention is diverted from Grantaire by this sudden announcement from her model, eyes suddenly wide and sad, as if it has possibly occurred to her that she may have said something wrong, and is crushed by the very idea. The potential for a burst of movement evaporates from the set of her shoulders, and she holds onto the edge of the table as though she needs the support from it to stay upright. Ignoring the repressed smiles and snickers from around the tables, Feuilly shakes her head slightly, walking around to the back of Enjolras’s chair to give her a one-armed hug, amusement etched in the strong lines of her face. “Thanks, Enjolras. Love you, too.”

With that, she is gone, and if the look on Enjolras’s face would not be out of place on an smitten teenager’s face, Courfeyrac is kind enough not to describe it in excruciating detail until the meeting after next, at least.


End file.
